i will always stay by your side forever
by Llmav
Summary: In which Austin and Ally both have some secrets.


**A/N; This one is really, really REALLY different from what I usually write. It's a little angsty and kind of cute and just...different. Please be kind.**

He is about halfway through the Fall semester when he meets her at a party.

That in itself isn't really anything special, he guesses, nothing unique.

After all, he has met too many girls at too many parties, at this point unable to keep track of them even if he _had_ wanted to.

They're at some house, he's not entirely sure of neither whose it is nor how he got there, and it's too loud and too crowded and most likely way, way, way too hot, but in his inebriated mind none of that matters.

Come to think of it, nothing really matters.

Not anymore.

Life has become depressingly pointless as of late.

He's doing his usual thing, drinking heavily, as an almost desperate mean of trying to forget, everything, himself, people...

One person.

_Pale skin, blue eyes_.

He wants them gone, hoping that they will soon just get the fuck out of his head, just as they are already out of his life.

He knows that he's hoping that the pain will lessen with each additional shot, but he also knows that it's a futile effort, as the alcohol always and unfailingly manages to trigger things in his mind that he is normally a freaking professional at keeping stored away.

He's not really sure that he's having fun, the party is really not more than a blur and not at all very different from any of the other, numerous ones that he has attended in the last few weeks, but as he's a really good actor (he sometimes even manages to fool himself), he pretends that he's having the time of his life, and since his eyes don't wander off in the very wrong yet somehow increasingly right direction as often as he has feared, the night must be considered a success, after all.

_Pale skin, blue eyes._

He's heart is beating as he's looking but not looking, craving, but he can't touch, it's not for him, not anymore and never, ever again. He has made sure of that.

_Good job, buddy. Good job._

He takes another shot.

Funny how something that is _so_ over, something that by now is just a collection of short snapshots of happiness, can stab you, almost physically hurt you and nearly kill you, albeit not literally.

He shakes his head.

He _needs_ to forget, he _needs_ to move on, he _needs_ to just fucking change, and he knows that they're both avoiding each other and in a way he's glad, although he's not, not at all.

He takes yet another shot and then decides to move on, literally, as he realizes, ironically, that he's been stuck in the same spot for like the past twenty minutes, and his neck is starting to hurt from his continuous attempts at _not_ looking over there.

So he starts walking around, familiar and unfamiliar faces immediately mixing into a blurred painting of intoxicated carelessness, and he keeps on roaming the room, as if that somehow will allow him to escape from his own head. He soon realizes that he is going in circles, and fittingly so, as he feels like that pretty much describes his entire life at this point, his head soon spinning in more ways than one and his thoughts unclear, they don't make sense yet they make _more_ sense, and maybe it's just that he doesn't want them to make sense, because they are the polar opposite of what he has decided that he wants, what he _needs_.

He doesn't see her, because she's so God damn _small_, so he walks right into her, or perhaps stumble upon her, as if she's a rock on an otherwise smooth road, and of course he spills his drink all over her, and she shrieks as the clearly cold, clear liquid splashes all over her neck, her chest, the small drops trickling down the black material of her dress before landing on the floor, soon creating a small pool of his embarrassment on the dirty carpet.

He feels bad, of course he does, _so_ bad, but she just laughs, a bit darkly as if a spilled drink and a ruined dress is the least of her problems, and he immediately knows that she is different somehow, better.

Different and better.

She's short, much much shorter than him, and pretty, that much he knows. She looks familiar, perhaps they have had a few classes together (although he has been skipping class more than attending them lately), but he knows he has never spoken to her, because if he had, he just knows that he would have remembered what her voice sounds like.

He realizes that one of his teammates is standing there, next to them, looking annoyed, and it's pretty obvious that he was already flirting with her, most likely badly so, but what else is new.

That's what they _all_ do. And _always_ do.

They are, after all, the football heroes, the worshiped royalty on the very large campus, and the rest of the student population are their servants, whether they know it or not, but those who know it don't mind and those who don't know it don't matter.

He ignores his teammate, and his furious, stabbing looks, because Dall_ass _can find his quick lay somewhere else, there are plenty of pretty girls at the party, as per usual, and it isn't as if that dumbfuck will remember her name in the morning, anyways.

It takes him a few seconds to find his voice, so in the meantime, he extends his hand and she grabs it before he speaks.

"Sorry."

She smiles, hesitantly, as she nods, then laughs out loud as he doesn't let go of her hand, and he immediately feels more alive than he has for a long time, and her hand is so small in his, _too_ small, but yet somehow surprisingly perfect.

She continues to look at him with an amused smile, as if something he has said or done is funny, although he doesn't know whether she's laughing _at _him or _with_ him, but he doesn't mind either way, because he instinctively knows that she doesn't mean anything bad by it.

She has dark eyes, and brown hair, and a petite body that he's sure has all the right proportions, and he realizes that he's still holding her hand and Dallas has finally walked away, and he's about to let go of her when she looks at him again, and suddenly he feels like he _never_ wants to let go of her, because this time it feels like she's not just looking _at_ him but right _into_ him, as if she has some sort of X-Ray vision and is able to not just look into his closet full of skeletons, but also into his God damn soul.

And although he's intrigued, he's also scared, terrified even, of what she will find in there, as he's pretty sure she can see things that he's hiding even from himself.

Fuck, he must be even drunker than he has thought.

She's still looking at him, and it hits him that he doesn't yet know her name.

He _needs_ to know her name.

"I'm Austin." His voice sounds a bit funny, even he can hear it, probably because he's already pissed drunk, and he's kind of impressed by himself that he is still maintaining his balance.

Or at least somewhat.

"Ally."

"Ally. _Ally_ _Ally_ _Ally_." He says it a couple of times, liking the way it sounds, sweet and kind of like it leaves a good taste in his mouth. "Let me go get you another drink."

She nods. "Sure. I'll have another water. Cold, please." She smiles.

"You don't _drink_?" He doesn't mean for it to sound as if he's in disbelief.

But he is.

Miami University is considered one of the top party schools in the nation and he's yet, by his senior year, to meet anyone who doesn't drink like livers are not necessary and as if it's alcohol that is flowing from the somewhat rusty dorm taps.

But perhaps he's just been keeping the wrong company.

She shakes her head. "Not anymore." It's an answer that is full of mystery, full of potential questions, but he just knows that this isn't the time nor the place to ask them, so he just nods before he heads for the improvised bar, soon returning with her non-poison of choice, along with several _very_ poisonous shots for himself.

They continue to small talk, or least he thinks that they are, it's kind of hard to hear anything as the place is still too loud, and then suddenly he's feeling dizzy and slightly disoriented.

"You want to get out of here?" It's not one of his usual, lame pick-up lines, he genuinely wants to leave, but he's not yet ready to leave her behind.

She shakes her head, slowly and almost sadly. "I don't go home with random guys that I've just met."

He smiles. So he is right. She _is_ different.

"Then how about we dance?"

She nods, and then they do.

She's not a good dancer, but it's not really like that matters, and while he's usually a _really_ good dancer, tonight the room is just kind of spinning a little too much.

But they dance anyways, and laugh, and he drinks, and as she still refuses to take shots with him, although he picks them up in pairs, he ends up drinking twice as much, and before he knows it, he's not just pissed drunk but outright wasted, and the room is spinning faster than a laundry machine on crack and his head can't keep up and he knows that he really, _really_ needs to go home.

It's as if she can tell, because she asks him where he lives, and it takes him a minute to answer, but once he does so, she fishes some car keys out of her small purse, quickly says goodbye to her friend, and then they're in her car, and it's small just like her and he's probably too big for it because his legs are hitting her dashboard, but he really, really doesn't mind.

She's driving as if she's taking her freaking driver's test, nervously and slowly, and it's pretty quiet, too quiet, until he reaches over and turns on her car radio, the small space soon flooded with bad Spanish music, and they both laugh as they unsuccessfully try to sing along.

She walks him to his door, his arm not wrapped around her narrow shoulder but kind of resting there, perhaps as if he can't walk without her, and he notices that she smells good, not _right_ but good.

"I thought you don't go home with random men."

She smiles slightly, almost as if she can't help it. "I think you might be kind of different."

He thinks it's a compliment, although to him, being different is anything but.

They're by the door, outside of his apartment, when he makes a misguided attempt to kiss her, not at all forcefully but probably kind of roughly, and she pushes him off immediately, and surprisingly easily, and she looks a bit scared, and a bit confused, as if she hadn't at all expected it, and he feels like a bigger ass than usual.

"I'm sorry." He seems to be doing nothing but apologize to her all night, and he's stupid and dumb and way too drunk, and he's pretty sure he'll never see her again, and that surprisingly hurts him a lot.

She shakes her head. "It's ok, it's just...I don't really do..._that_ anymore, either. And although I don't really know why, maybe because I just _know_ that you're a good guy, but I think I kind of like you. Let's try to keep it that way."

He nods and she takes a few steps, clearly in an effort to leave, and he stops her, softly. "Are you sure you should be walking alone at night?"

She laughs, indisputably the saddest one he's heard all night. "It's funny how you kind of stop being scared once your worst nightmares come true."

And he watches her as she walks away, waiting until she reaches the car, and for some reason that he really can't explain, he quickly prays that she will somehow come back into his life.

His back is against the door and he suddenly feels lonely, so so lonely, because he doesn't even have himself to lean on.

Once she's driven off, he enters his apartment, then stumbles to his bed before spending the last few minutes of late-night consciousness thinking of blue eyes and pale skin and brown curls, and how his life is currently nowhere near the way he had always planned it.

...

The next day she's on his door step.

It's late morning, probably even midday, but still way, way, way too early.

He's not just surprised but kind of speechless when he flings the door open, in annoyance, the sound of the door bell cutting into his brain like damn knives, but his planned outburst of carefully selected curse words get stuck in his sore and dry throat when he sees her standing there.

She looks different from the previous night, less perfected, but shes equally pretty, he knows she is.

His head is pounding and she is semi-smiling, of course, and the smell from the plastic bag that is dangling from her right hand is teasingly tickling his nostrils, and he isn't sure of what to do, because a girl who he has just met yet already knows he needs in his life is at his apartment, uninvited, and he has suddenly lost his voice and apparently also his manners.

He clears his throat, hoping that his upcoming, obvious question won't come off as rude.

"What are you doing here?" Good. It doesn't.

She shrugs. "I thought you might be hungry."

She nods towards the bag and he steps to the side, allowing her into his man cave and perhaps inadvertently into his life.

He's in pretty bad shape, he knows he is, his hair undoubtedly a bed head of a mess and he has some old t-shirt haphazardly thrown on over his fairly muscular upper-body, the grayish material a bit too short and probably revealing just a tad of skin, or more accurately, abs, in between said shirt and his low-slung, too big basketball shorts, but he has never heard a girl complain before and besides, it doesn't even seem like she's really noticing.

And in his defense, he didn't know she was coming over.

She roams through his small kitchen, the kitchen that's a slight mess and not very frequently used, apparently looking for some plates that she soon finds in the back of one of the cluttered cabinets.

And then they sit there, across from each other by his too small kitchen table, eating semi-warm pancakes with non-matching plastic utensils, and he's not sure of what to say, because he doesn't want to scare her away, and he knows he needs a shower, and God, he hopes he doesn't smell, and he's thinking two hundred thoughts per minute, but despite that, the rate of words actually coming out of his mouth remains at zero.

"You smell." She says it as if they have known each other for years, and in a way he feels like she already understands him better than anyone else currently in his life.

The fact that she's already so comfortable with him makes him oddly happy, just like the fact that she obviously doesn't care what he thinks of her appearance, as she's wearing sweatpants and absolutely no make-up.

Not that that's a bad thing. He was wrong earlier, she's even prettier today.

"I'm sorry, I didn't expect company. The girls I usually hang out with leave before I wake up."

He smirks, because that's what he does, and she doesn't look amused, but not necessarily disgusted either.

She shrugs. "As long as it makes you happy." She says it as if she knows it doesn't.

And the smirks fades from his face.

His sober now, and she can still see right through him.

Crap.

Its quite for for a minute while he continues to attack the stack of round mouthfuls of paradise, and then he comes to think of something.

"How did you know that pancakes are my favorite food?"

She shakes her head, the soft curls bouncing everywhere. "I didn't."

So her bringing him his favorite food in the whole wide world was a lucky guess, a fluke, a _coincidence_, much like the circumstances that brought them together the previous night.

They finish the pancakes, the delicious, heavenly pancakes, but she makes no attempt to leave and he has absolutely no desire for her to do so, so he takes a much needed shower, alone, and then they spend the rest of the lazy Sunday on his slightly beat up couch, side by side, watching whatever is on his flat screen tv and he can't remember a time in the last few months when he has felt more relaxed.

They talk, they eat, _again_, although the selection of culinary items is very limited, and she complains over the lack of available pickles, and he makes a mental note to pick some up as soon as possible, because he has the feeling, or maybe it's just a small sliver of hope, that she will be stopping by quite often.

She's fun.

She thinks before she speaks, but when she speaks it makes so much sense, and she's so smart and so thoughtful and he wishes that he knew half the stuff that she does.

But he doesn't.

She smiles, a lot, but he gets the feeling that there is a sadness to it, much like his own.

It's not necessarily a fake smile, but perhaps a wishful one, as if they both share the same belief that as long as you just smile first, happiness will somehow automatically follow.

He finds out that they both love music, although he kind of haven't had the time for it for a few years, and she says she's too scared to really pursue it, and he tells her that she should follow her dreams, and she asks him if he is following his and he nods, quickly, too quickly, before having the chance to acknowledge the small voice that he can only assume to be his conscious yelling loudly in a hidden corner of his stupid brain.

He _is_ living the dream. The _American_ dream, even. He's popular and successful and his parents are rich, that's how he can afford a semi-nice apartment with no roommates, and he's _happy_.

At least he likes to repeatedly tell himself that he is.

She promises him not to give up, and that she's going to come watch the next football game, and he asks if he can take her out to eat somewhere afterwards, and she agrees and they both know it's not a date, but he has never been more excited about a non-date, like, ever.

And then it's late, very late, and he walks her to her car, not because he has to but because he wants to, and once they get there, they hug, closely and for a very long time.

As she unlocks her car door, she turns around and looks at him.

"See you in class?"

It's not really a question, perhaps more of a hopeful request, and he nods, as he realizes that he had been right, they _do_ have class together, and suddenly said class seem much more alluring.

Or at least not as painfully boring as before.

And as he slowly walks back towards his apartment, he already know, somewhere deep in the back of that stupid brain of his, that he loves her.

...

Months go by, fast, because time flies when you're having fun, and he can't really recall ever having as much fun as he has with her.

One day of hanging-out becomes many, and he attends less and less parties and spend more and more time with her, just hanging out, talking until both their throats are literally hurting and somehow, the pain in his chest, the pain that reminds him of what he has done and what he can't get back, is a little less noticeable, a little less suffocating, when he has her.

They quickly move from strangers to friends to _best_ friends, and before he knows it he kind of doesn't even really know how to breath without her.

And he realizes that he has never really had a friend like that before.

He has the guys on the team, sure, but they don't _really_ know him, and if they did they would no longer like him.

He can't blame them.

Why would they?

_He_ doesn't even like him.

But she, she's different.

She's his.

People naturally assume that they're dating, and he doesn't bother correcting them, because although it's not her that he's in love with, he has never loved anyone else as much.

When his teammates ask how the sex is, or other way too personal questions, he just brushes them off, and he can get away with it, because he's, after all, the king, and the rest of the team might be royalty but they know better than to question their undisputed leader.

He quickly realizes that the two of them actually have _seve__ral_ classes together, and studying is suddenly fun again, or at least _more_ fun, and he soon remembers that he actually likes learning.

Sometimes he gets a feeling that she's hiding something, but then again, who isn't.

And then they're at his place one day,on the couch, of course, lazily watching some crime show where they fail to catch the bad guy, when he realizes that something is bothering her, something that he doesn't know how to ask her about or even if he should.

He decides to leave it be, he has learned by now that she will speak about it when she wants to.

A few minutes pass, and then she turns to him, looking right at him in the way that only she does.

"I'm so happy I met you, Austin."

And he nods, and moves a little closer to her on the couch, because his words are getting stuck in his throat all of a sudden, and she doesn't say anything else but just smiles, a real smile, becuase she knows exactly what his silence means, and then he hugs her, there on the couch, until the night kills the evening and her even breaths are telling him that she's asleep.

...

It's a dark day in late winter when she breaks down.

It's Friday, and he has promised to cook dinner, which in his case means picking up pre-ordered take-out from the nearby Chinese food place.

He has told her to let herself in, she has had a key to his place for a while already, but when he enters the apartment it's dark, and at first he thinks that maybe she's running late.

He turns on the kitchen light, placing the food containers at the table and is about to call her when he hears something, a small sound, reminiscent of the noise of something, _someone_ in pain, _so_ much pain, and he feels panic rush through him before he manages to control his body enough to go and look.

He finds her on the couch, the couch that has become their nest, the nest where they flock together like two injured birds, perhaps unknowingly nursing each other back to happiness and away from heart break, and he flinches as he finds her in some sort of fetal position, sobbing loudly now.

At first he fears that she's badly hurt, halfway expecting blood to be tricking down onto the light carpet, and he's extremely relieved when he's panicky brain processes that she's fine.

At least physically.

He approaches her slowly, one small step at a time, until his large arms, the arms he's pretty sure were made for holding her, are tightly wrapped around her tiny body.

The sobs don't end, and there are tears running all over her face like never-ending rivers, and he doesn't really know how to stop them so he just continues to hold her, tight, until the tears run over his arms, too, soaking him, as if the two of them are trapped in an ocean of emotions, the couch their nearly capsizing boat, and him temporarily the captain, a captain not fully capable of steering their ship and unsure of in what direction they're headed.

He can't recall her ever feeling as fragile in his arms, as if she will snap if he hugs her too hard, but he still holds her, tightly, and she's doesn't say anything for a very, very, very long time.

And when she finally does, he almost loses it.

"He was so strong."

Her voice is small, almost impossible to hear, yet her words are booming like gunshots in his already ringing ears, and he doesn't say anything because she's still talking, faster now, as if there's no stopping her once she's gotten started.

He's trying to make sense of what she's saying, trying to not scream out loud and just fucking punch something, trying to not fucking just _lose_ it.

Someone has hurt her, done things to her that she didn't want but couldn't stop, and now can't move on from, and he's having a difficult time processing it as anger continues to completely overtake him, and he feels drunk although he's hardly been drinking for months, and not at all in a good way, but in an aggressive way, in a way that makes him completely lose control and it almost scares himself.

He still hasn't said anything, he's not entirely sure that he still knows how to speak, and then he can't help himself, he let's go of her and gets up and punches the wall, the concrete wall, over and over and over, until his knuckles bleed and he might have broken his fucking hand, but he doesn't even feel it, or maybe he does but in a way it feels good, he _wants_ to feel pain, he'll take all the pain in the world if it means that she can feel just a tiny bit less of it.

She gets off the couch, and touches his arm, immediately making his punch hang undelivered in the air, as he hugs her instead.

They stand there, for a minute, an hour, five hours, he doesn't know and it doesn't matter.

"I've never told anyone before." She's whispering, and she still sounds broken, but she's stopped crying and all he wants to do is hug her, for forever and beyond.

"That's what I'm here for. I'm your secret keeper." He smiles weakly through the tears that he can't keep from continuing to form in his eyes and she nods, knowingly, as if she's already keeping a secret for him, although he has to his knowledge never told her one. "Right back at you, buddy."

...

It's halfway through the Spring semester when she blurts it out one day, sitting on his spacious king bed, for once, her back against the wall and her legs resting on top of his football themed comforter.

Don't judge him, he isn't the one who picked it out.

Mimi Moon could be a bit controlling and a lot convincing from time to time.

The season is almost over, and he's been so busy with school and the team that he hasn't seen her for a few days.

"I started going to that counseling group." She says it quickly, as if she's not a hundred percent sure that it's true, or perhaps like she might change her mind about it unless she tells him, but he can also tell that she's happy, hesitantly so, but happy nonetheless.

He smiles from where he's sitting by his desk, grins even, as he searches for the right thing to say. He has more or less bugged her about it for months, trying to convince her to give it a try.

"That's...fantastic, I mean, you know..." He _clearly_ has a way with words.

"I couldn't, _wouldn't_, have done it without you. But I think I'm ready. To move on, you know?"

He nods, because he _does_ know. "I can't think of anyone who deserves to be happy more than you."

"What about yourself?" She's looking at him with that knowing look, the look that he both loves and hates.

"I _am_ happy."

"Austin..."

"What?"

"Isn't it time to..."

"_What_?"

He interrupts her, becuase he kind of knows what she's going to say, and he doesn't want to hear it, he doesn't want to hear her say it, because that makes it real and it's not.

_It's_ _not_ _real_.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"Austin..."

Dead silence. Except for him swallowing hard.

"Are you really going to make me say it?"

Dead silence. Except for his racing heartbeat.

She shakes her head. "Fine. When are you going to come out?"

He knows that blood is rushing to his face, he knows that his heart is not just pounding but fucking galloping, and he can't remember feeling as upset since _that _night.

"I'm not..." He can't finish the sentence, unable to say the word out loud even when denying it.

_Gay_.

It's such a short word, three little letters, yet somehow impossible to come out of his mouth in any other way than a derogatory slur, a slur the guys on the team nonchalantly throw around almost more frequently than the actual football.

"Austin..." She's looking a bit sad now.

"I'm NOT." He's hallways screaming, although he's not mad at her, his mad at himself.

She shakes her head. "Ok, just forget that I said anything." He can tell that she still doesn't believe him, perhaps because it's not the truth.

"I'll fucking sleep with you right here and now to prove it." He's still fuming, and he feels like punching something again, perhaps himself or maybe the wall in the living room that still has marks from their last round.

She's shaking her head. "Austin, please..."

"You don't think I _can_?"

"I'm not saying that you _can't_, Austin, all I'm saying is that we both know which one of us would somewhat enjoy it. And from what I've heard, I would enjoy it a lot."

She looks even sadder now, and his anger decreases automatically, becuase he knows she means well and he knows she knows the truth and there's really no use in denying it anymore, not to _her_, not to his best friend.

"How long have you known?" His voice is a whisper and he can't really look at her.

"Since the first time we met." It's almost like she want to add a duh at the end, as if it's that obvious.

That, for some reason, doesn't surprise him and his anger is suddenly completely gone, soon replaced with some kind of despair.

"But _why_?" He says it loudly, unsure of exactly what it is that he's questioning, or who the question is targeted at, perhaps himself, or ociety, or life, or God, or her...

He finally looks at her, and she just shrugs, as if she doesn't really care that she doesn't have the answer. "What's the fun in being like everybody else, anyways?"

They engage in some sort of staring contest, and then she approaches him, wrapping her arms around him while he's still sitting in his swirling chair, although she can't really reach all the way around, and then he breaks down, the tough quarterback soon shaking in her tiny arms, and he cries, and cries, because he's not ready and he never ever will be, and he doesn't deserve to be happy becuase he's gross and different and not the way he should be.

She's quiet, as if she knows that that's what he needs, and eventually, his tears dry up.

"I'm sorry I never told you." His voice is still a bit shaky.

"Better late than never, right?" ,and he just knows she's not just referring to herself.

She's talking about _him, _although she doesn't know him, doesn't even know about him, but she's clearly figured out the notion of him.

_Pale skin, blue eyes_.

Flashbacks invades his head, rapid snapshots of the empty locker room, the shower, their mouths moving in sloppy synchrony, those lips moving all over his body, him down on his knees for the boy almighty, sucking him into oblivion, hands intertwined in hair and grains echoing off the walls...

And then he remebers the last time they spoke, ever, the time when the redhead wanted him to do things he wasn't ready for, _isn't_ ready for, dates, love, public acknowledgement, and all the vile things that he said, things he can never take back.

"I don't deserve happiness."

"Austin, _you're_ amazing, I trusted you the first time we met and you _know_ I don't really trust anybody. You're just worried about what everyone else will think. But do you know how unfair you're being to yourself? How much longer are you going to let other people's incorrect and irrelevant opinions stand in the way for your happiness?"

"I can't do it." He's shaking his head. "I'm scared."

"I know, but isn't it even scarier to not be happy?"

He doesn't know how to answer that, so he doesn't.

She sighs. "I'm sorry, I think maybe you're ready but I can't make that decision for you."

A few minutes of silence pass, and then he gets up and hugs her, tightly, his mouth next to her ear, trying to find the words.

"_I'm_ _gay_." It's nothing but a whisper, but he's doing it, he's saying it, out loud, and he knows that she's smiling although he can't see her face as his nose is buried in her neck.

"You can whisper it to me until you're ready to scream it loudly and proudly to the world."

"_That_ will never happen."

"Never say never."

He hugs her again, and again, and again, before he sighs. "If things were different, it would be you, me, 1.8 kids and a minivan."

She laughs as she's poking him in the chest. "Yeah, yeah. Who says your my type anyways?"

"I'm _everybody's_ type."

And then for the rest of the night she holds him, on the couch, as if she can somehow protect him, although he's not sure from what, perhaps from himself.

...

He wakes up the next morning to the smell of homemade pancakes, his mouth watering even before he's completely conscious and he reluctantly gets up, because who can resist pancakes.

He lingers in the kitchen doorway for a minute, observing her without her knowing as she's finishing up the breakfast treat.

She he smiles when she sees him. "Good morning, bed head."

"I love you, you know."

"I know." She's still smiling.

"Not just because you're making me pancakes, although that doesn't hurt."

"I know."

They eat, in silence, the type of silence that he only shares with her, the type of silence that speaks volumes despite none of them saying anything at all.

"Thanks for...you know, for still being here."

She looks right at him, the way she always has, and the smile is sorrow-free, most of them are nowadays, and she speaks slowly, as if she really, really wants him to understand what she's saying.

"Austin, I will always stay, by your side, forever. I love you more than anyone else I have ever met, and that will never ever change. Now if you could just please learn to love yourself as much as I do."

And he nods, because he's trying, or at least he will try to try.

And at the end of that day, their never-failing goodbye hug lasts just a little bit longer and means just a little bit more.

...

It's the last day of the season, the last game of his college career, and thereby the end of his football career in general.

They're both graduating in a few weeks, and then it's off to the real world.

Or, in their case, low paying jobs and a joint apartment, which is probably too expensive (her words) and awesomely amazing (his), and he can't wait to actually live with her.

The game is packed, and of course she's there, in the stands, as she has been for every game since they met, front row, like the queen she is.

It's a tight game, the opponents tougher than they have expected and it's not without a lot of effort that they finally score the winning touchdown.

He runs up to her to celebrate, just like he always does, embracing her, his sweat rubbing up all over her but he knows that she doesn't mind because if he's happy she's happy and he screams loudly in her ear and she laughs and jumps up and down.

A. Knute later she stops, and he realizes that she's looking at something, or rather at _someone_, someone who he has made sweet, sweet love to, someone who he has said terrible, terrible things to, and she nods ever so slightly, over towards the object of both his affection and his nightmares, as if nudging him in the right direction.

He had told her about them, about a month prior, when he was for once kind of drunk, and although she has never, ever mentioned it since then, he knows she hasn't forgotten.

It's the waterboy.

The red-headed waterboy.

The boy with those lips, and that _pale_ _skin_, and those _blue eyes_ that both haunt him and mesmerize him, and he's suddenly overcome by _longing_, and he makes up his mind, right then and there.

As he walks away from her, he turns around and mouths a quiet "I love you", and she nods as she does the same thing, and although he's not completely sure, he thinks he can see a few tears in her eyes, and at first he thinks that they are tears of joy, but then he realizes that they are created out of pride.

She's proud, of him, and he has therefore never been prouder of himself.

He kills the short distance between them with a few quick strides, his long legs almost moving on auto-pilot and he knows that he sees him, and then he's there, in front of his red-headed wet dream, and he grabs him, and kisses him, with lots of tongue, and he tastes like Dez and love and sexual desire and freedom, and he can hear people talking and whistling and screaming and someone is booing, and he's not at all sure of what will come next.

It feels like he's falling, skydiving without a parachute, but he knows that he will survive, although he might metaphorically break a leg or two, or his parents will do the breaking for him once they found out, but it doesn't matter, it's worth it, because he is no longer scared.

And he's finally, finally, finally ready to scream, loudly and proudly.


End file.
